


The Necromancer

by WolfRune20855



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Rigel Black Chronicles
Genre: Always Female Harry Potter, F/F, F/M, Gen, Inspired by The Rigel Black Chronicles, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:13:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26046337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolfRune20855/pseuds/WolfRune20855
Summary: Her very existence is illegal. The bastard daughter of Lord Riddle, Aysa, grows up on the streets of Knockturn Alley, keeping her magic a secret from everyone.Based on murkybluematter's The Rigel Black Chronicles.
Relationships: Bill Weasley/Original Female Character(s), Harry Potter/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 51





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fanfiction of murkybluematter's The Rigel Black Chronicles. If you haven't read that, you should check out her amazing stories first. Her exploration of Knockturn Alley is brilliant, and I wanted more of the alleys and the people who live within them, so I am writing this fic. Because this is based on murkybluematter's masterpiece, I am more likely to follow the rules set up in her world than the ones of Harry Potter. I also made up quite a few of my own. Just go with the flow and don't be too rigid on your definition of magic.
> 
> If you haven't read RBC but still wish to read this fic, let me catch you up to speed:
> 
> RBC is set in a world where Harry Potter is a girl and Tom Riddle decided to go into politics instead of becoming a mass-murdering dark lord. This means that James and Lily are still alive, as is Sirius, who has a son named Archie. Because of laws passed by Tom Riddle's political party, only purebloods are allowed to go to Hogwarts. Harry loves potions and desires to study under Professor Snape, so she trades places with her cousin (who goes to the American Institutes of Magic to become a healer), disguising herself as Rigel Black.
> 
> All of that will happen in this story, but it is not what this story is about. This is the story of Aysa Petrova Riddle, a necromancer whose life is about to turn upsidedown.
> 
> Enjoy!

It was snowing the day that Aysa's mother died. It has been snowing for days and weeks before, and it wasn't anything unusual—after all, Moscow in December meant snow—but there was something different about the snow that day.

As Aysa stared out of the window of her mother's small hospital room, listening to the bustling of healers around her, she watched the snow fall to the ground. It stuck to the icy pavement outside, pristine for just one moment before being destroyed by muddy tracks. The snowflakes danced before her eyes, silent as they fell, and Aysa found herself overcome with the desire to feel them—to be the one to destroy the white powder.

Slowly, Aysa unlatched the window. Pulling it open, she reached out, running her fingers through the new snow on the windowsill. The snow felt cool against her fingers, but she did not freeze. Indeed, it felt more natural to be surrounded by ice and cold than it did to be in the sweltering hospital room.

The window slammed shut. The tall healer who had looked after Valeriya Petrova these past few months, Galina Ivanova, glared at Aysa. "Do you want to kill your mother?" she asked sternly in Russian.

Aysa shook her head, turning to the rickety bed in the middle of the room. She did not want her mother to die. She had told her as much over the past few weeks as she'd begged and pleaded with her mother to let her fix her. She could—she knew she could. Her mother's answer was always the same. " _No, Aysa. I will not let another take my place."_ Aysa respected her mother enough to let her die in peace.

She had the Pox. At least, that's what they called it. No one knew what it was. The disease snuck up on healthy witches, devouring their bodies and magic in a matter of months. There was no cure. The Pox was a death sentence—or it should have been. It didn't have to be for Valeriya Petrova. Aysa could have saved her if only her mother would allow it, but Valeriya had always feared her daughter's magic. She had feared its power.

Staring at her mother's withering form, Aysa's heart sank. The once proud and beautiful Valeriya was only a shade of her former self. Her golden hair was limp and dirty. Her face was hollow and pale. The truth was plain for all to see: Valeriya Petrova was dying. Her soul was barely tethered to this realm. It was only a matter of time before she passed on.

Asya felt an overwhelming urge to ignore her mother's orders. All she had to do was reach into her core and channel her magic into her mother. Aysa closed her eyes, focusing on the feeling of stillness around her. She could feel her mother's magic, the last remaining embers of a once roaring hearth. She was dying, and Aysa could make it stop. She could do what no one else could.

Aysa was a necromancer.

This was the Petrova's greatest secret. As far as everyone else in the magical community was concerned, Aysa had yet to show any signs of magic. Only twelve years old, most of her magical peers were quick to label her a squib. Aysa preferred it that way. It was better than being dead.

Though they were born of wizards and witches, necromancers were categorized as creatures. Government officials all over the world espoused nonsensical reasons for this categorization: necromancers did not use wands, they could move through the realms of life and death, their magical cores were different. Aysa knew that there was only one true reason: they were scared. The wizards in charge found themselves faced with a being with more magic than them—with the ability to end a life as easily as they could save one—and they were terrified. In Russia, necromancers were taken by the government as soon as their magic began to appear. In other countries, like Britain, they went on a registry and were treated as secondary citizens. Even the United States, which had fewer blood-laws, believed that the best necromancer was a controlled one. And if you could not control them, then you killed them. Luckily for Aysa, necromancers were uncommon, so no one blinked twice when the bastard daughter of a halfblood witch turned out to be a squib. It was to be expected.

Aysa wrenched her eyes open, focusing once more on her mother's form. She felt the moment Valeriya's soul broke apart from her body. Aysa watched as it crept out of her, rising into the air like gently falling snow. Reaching out, Aysa touched a fragment of her mother's soul. A jolt shot through her body—warmth, and love, and acceptance of everything that she was and would become. A tear rolled down her cheek. By the time that Aysa brushed it away, her mother's soul was gone forever.

The numbness slowly spread throughout Aysa's body as she stared at her mother's corpse. She was dead, and there was nothing Aysa could do about it. Had Valeriya chosen to be a ghost, Aysa could have found a new body for her, but her mother had moved on. She had left. For the first time in her life, Aysa was truly alone. A hollow ache ripped through her chest. She collapsed into the chair below the window, tears flowing freely down Aysa's cheeks, freezing before they hit the ground. Outside, the wind howled, swirling the snow until a blizzard began to form. Aysa didn't notice.

Galina Ivanova did. Standing in the doorway, she watched the girl cry for her dead mother. She felt the chill that crept into the room. For one minute, her gaze lingered on the crying girl, taking in her sharp features. She looked nothing like her mother. Even in death, Valeriya looked angelic. The girl, on the other hand, was tall and sharp. She was pale, with black hair that curled lazily down her back. It was her eyes, however, that scared Galina. Even when she smiled, they were as cold as the ice outside.

Reaching into the pockets of her robes, Galina pulled out the letter Valeriya had given her before she passed. " _Her father must know the truth,"_ Valeriya had said to Galina when she handed the healer the letter. It didn't explain much, but Galina had promised to help Valeriya in any way she could. Sighing, Galina left Aysa to her tears and left to send Valeriya's letter.

.

.

Tom Riddle had just gotten back from a very important meeting with the Minister of Magic when he discovered the letter waiting for him on his desk. He was in a good mood. The meeting had gone well. The Minister was finally beginning to see the urgency in saving the magical world from the Fade. Over the next few years, Riddle knew that he'd be able to push legislation to save magic. First, he had to discredit and eliminate Dumbledore.

With that in mind, Riddle picked up the letter. It was worn and weathered. The charms keeping the letter pristine had worn off as it traveled, which meant that it came from a distant place. After running a few diagnostic spells to ensure that it was not trapped, Riddle slid his letter opener through the top. He hadn't had any particular expectations about the contents of the letter, but it surprised him nonetheless.

_Dear Tom,_

_I have thought about writing to you many times over this past decade, but have never been able to bring myself to do so. We did not part on good terms. That was as much my fault as it was yours. There were too many secrets between us to ever work out in this lifetime, even if we had managed to put aside our differences for more than a few weeks. That has been my reasoning for never telling you the truth––for never reaching out to discover what could have been. I apologize for it, regardless of how sound of reasoning it was because, in doing so, I have robbed you of many years of joy._

Riddle didn't recognize the handwriting. His eyes flicked down to the bottom of the page, noting the sender before continuing: Valeriya Petrova. Riddle chuckled. That was a name he had not thought of in a long time.

Over a decade ago, Riddle had represented the Ministry of Magic at an International Summit in Russia. He had gone to push his pro-magic agenda––to protect the magical world he loved so much from those who would wish to destroy it. The Summit had been disappointing, to say the least, but while he was there, he had met Valeriya. She was a witch with a love for Dark magic. She collected rare Dark artifacts, saving them from people like Dumbledore who would see them destroyed. She had been enthusiastic about sharing that knowledge with the handsome English diplomat. Riddle had admired her. If she had been pureblood, he might have married her, but she was not, so Riddle only allowed himself a dalliance.

Despite the bad blood between them, Riddle could not bring himself to hate Valeriya Petrova. They were too alike for him to despise her truly. Riddle smiled at the thought of her writing him now. It was pleasing to know that he had left an impression after all these years. Turning his attention back to the letter, Riddle felt his blood run cold.

_If you are reading this, then it means that I am dead. The Pox snuck up on me, as it does every witch it takes. In the end, I lived a good life with little regrets. You are probably wondering where my collection is going now that I am gone. They are yours, so long as you follow my last wish: Protect our daughter._

Riddle froze. The elation that he may have felt upon gaining Valeriya's extensive collection was overridden by the sudden realization that he had a daughter. He didn't know what to think. Few people knew that he himself was a halfblood, and those that did knew better than to mention it, but Valeriya's blood status had been well known. After all, her mother went against everything her family had stood for when she married a muggle. It was a scandal that had rocked eastern Europe. Riddle's daughter would be a halfblood. A simple genealogy potion would reveal that––and it was required curriculum at Hogwarts.

This daughter was a problem.

_Her name is Aysa, and she looks a lot like you. She has defeated me in chess more times than I am willing to admit and has a deep appreciation for magical artifacts. I love her more than myself. She is my entire world. I do not want to see her harmed._

Riddle frowned at that statement. Who would harm a young witch? Even if he never claimed her, surely she would be plenty safe, even if she was a halfblood. Perhaps he could pay for her to attend the American Institute of Magic. Beauxbaton would accept her if they knew that he was her father, but he was unwilling to give his enemies that advantage.

_I know that you will never answer my question, but I will ask it nonetheless. I will admit that I am a little disappointed that I cannot see your expression when I do so. I will have to be content with my imagination. So, Tom, I ask you, when did you split your soul?_

Riddle's heart stopped in his chest. How did she know? Nobody knew. Creating a Horcrux had been a foolish decision of his youth. He suddenly found himself thankful that the witch was dead. Now, he could only hope that she had not told anyone.

_I am the only one who knows your secret, Tom. Do not worry. And I only know it because of my extensive research into necromancy. As you probably know, necromancers are born, not made. That is why there are so few of them. They are exclusively born to Dark wizards and witches, but the necessities to create one are more complex than a mere affinity for Dark magics. The stars must be aligned. They are only born on the winter solstice. Most importantly, one parent must be in possession of an incomplete soul._

Valeriya's reasoning was sound. Riddle had read a decent amount about necromancers as he tried to hunt down one for his cause. If Valeriya had researched them, then that meant––

_Aysa is a necromancer._

Riddle almost laughed at the irony. He had spent years searching for a necromancer to join him to ensure that his life never ended before it was meant to, and there had been one right under his nose all along. Aysa. His daughter was a necromancer. A necromancer.

_As far as anyone is concerned, she is a squib. I would like to keep it that way. Aysa should be able to live her life free of controlling governments. I am not so foolish as to believe that you will not try to use her abilities for your own gain, but I put my faith in your selfishness. She is your blood. You will not want the Ministry to use her against you. I know that she will be safe from others at your side._

Valeriya was right, of course. Riddle had just gained a useful ally. He would not turn her over to the Ministry––she was too valuable. The necromancer must be kept a secret.

_Against all my instincts, I am putting my faith in you, Tom. Aysa is your daughter. Protect her as I would._

_In the next life,_

_Valeriya Petrova_

Riddle stared at the letter for a moment longer. He reread the letter to ensure that he had not misinterpreted it. When he was content with the truth in Valeriya's words, he threw her letter into the fireplace. The paper burned before his eyes, along with all evidence that his daughter was a necromancer. As he strolled out of his office towards his floo network, Riddle began to piece together a plan––a plan to get Aysa out of Russia without anyone knowing that she was his. By the time he stepped out of the fireplace onto the marble floors of Malfoy Manor, Riddle knew exactly what he was going to do.

Aysa Petrova was about to become Tom Riddle's best-kept secret.

.

.

Aysa did not know how many friends her mother had until her funeral came. No one had visited in the hospital. Witches were too afraid of catching the Pox, even though there wasn't any evidence that it was contagious. In the months leading up to her death, Valeriya hadn't seen any of her friends. Aysa wondered if she knew how many of them attended her funeral.

There were more witches and wizards at Valeriya's funeral than Aysa had ever seen in her life. Most of them were of lower blood statuses, but Aysa had noticed the well-dressed men and women that lingered in the back, hiding under veils as if it would make them unrecognizable. Dolohovs––the family that had disowned Valeriya's mother for loving a muggle. Aysa frowned bitterly at them. They had no right to be there, but she did not tell them to leave. From a young age, her mother had instilled in her to never draw attention to herself. The fewer people noticed her, the fewer questions they asked. Instead, Aysa contented herself with watching ghosts move about the church, invisible to all but her.

Aysa was watching the ghosts of a revolutionary comb through the pages of a ghostly book––surely the Communist Manifesto––when the back door opened and a regal-looking man with long hair so blond that it was almost white snuck into the church. He looked out of place to Aysa, bundled up in furs that should not have been worn until January with features that were clearly unused to weathering the cold. He stood proud even as he tried not to draw attention to himself, and he did not listen to the bishop. Instead, he studied the room, taking in the Dolohovs in the back as Aysa had, before moving forwards. Aysa felt the exact moment his gaze landed on her.

She didn't know what he was looking for––perhaps the signs of a grieving daughter or similarities between her and the deceased. Whatever it was, he found it for satisfaction crossed over his features. His attention didn't leave Aysa for the remainder of the service. She stared straight ahead, focusing on the rambling priest. His eyes never left her, but Aysa pretended not to notice.

The line of well-wishers following the funeral was nauseating. Valeriya's many friends sought to encourage Aysa with stories of her mother and sincere apologies for not being there in her final hours. Aysa wondered how many of them truly regretted their abandonment. The Dolohovs did not stick around to make themselves known. Aysa did not care. In fact, she felt relieved at their vanishing act––fewer people for her to pretend to care with.

Aysa was in the middle of listening to a young witch who had barely known her mother ramble about the best methods to deal with grief when Vladika Pietre interrupted her. The bishop kindly dismissed the witch before focusing on Aysa. His dark eyes were filled with sadness.

"Aysa." He spoke her name quietly, but it pierced through the air around them.

The magical world had a tempestuous relationship with the church, but Valeriya's father had been a firm believer in God. He had passed that belief onto his daughter. There were parts of the Russian Orthodox church that knew of the existence of magical people and no longer persecuted them for the situation of their birth. Valeriya had turned to the church when Aysa's powers first started surfacing. Vladika Pietre was the only living person who knew that Aysa was a necromancer. Aysa liked the grandfatherly bishop. Her mother––for all her appreciation of Dark magic––was terrified of her daughter's powers, but Vladika Pietre saw it as a gift. He explained that all of God's children were blessed and that just because her talents were more unusual than most, that did not make her evil. Aysa would forever be grateful for his belief in her goodness.

"Are you well?" he asked.

"As well as I can be," Aysa answered.

The bishop nodded. He hesitated for a moment before speaking again, "Come to my office. There is someone you need to meet." He waited for Aysa to follow him through the church.

As they approached Vladika Pietre's office, Aysa felt the pit of dread in her stomach deepen. She was an orphan––alone in this world that would kill her if it got the chance. She wanted to sink into oblivion and never return. She wanted to disappear into the small apartment with the radiator that always broke on the coldest day of the year and surround herself with her mother's artifacts. Cataloging them had been a shared past time between the mother and daughter. A sudden thought struck Aysa. Was the apartment even hers anymore? Without her mother to regularly pay rent, Aysa did not know how she could continue living there. What would happen to her now?

Aysa didn't have time to ponder her question. A moment later, the door to Vladika Pietre's office swept open, and Aysa found herself face to face with the blond man. He stood as she entered. His steel-grey eyes studied her as they had in the sanctuary, searching for clues that Aysa did not herself know.

"Please, sit." Vladika Pietre gestured to a small seating area in his office. He always sat in the wing-backed chair, so Aysa turned to the couch. She sat on one end––the strange man sat on the other. The bishop flicked on an electric kettle and set about making tea. Camomille for himself. Peppermint for Aysa. He paused as he searched through his stash of teabags. Then, he turned to the man. "What type of tea do you drink?"

"Earl Grey," the man spoke strangely. It sounded to Aysa as if his voice were echoing through a chamber––distant and hardly understandable. Aysa's eyes narrowed. She had heard voices like his before on tourists from other countries. He was using a translating spell in order to understand them and be understood. That meant that he was a foreigner.

What was a foreigner doing at Valeriya Petrova's funeral?

Finally, Vladika Pietre finished making the teas and handed them off to their respective drinkers before settling into his chair. He took a sip of tea and turned to Aysa. "I know that you have heard it a hundred times already, but the passing of Valeriya truly saddens me. The grief will remain, even if she is in a better place."

The man snorted, but Vladika Pietre ignored him. Aysa nodded. Most of the mourners' wishes had felt hollow, but she appreciated the bishop's words. He truly believed what he said, and he did not pretend that everything would miraculously get better if Aysa willed it so. Aysa nodded her thanks to the old man. As much as she would have wanted to linger on memories of her mother, sharing anecdotes with Vladika Pietre over tea, there were more pressing issues for her to contend with.

"What happens to me now?" Aysa asked.

"That is what we are here to decide." Vladika Pietre set down his teacup. "It is unlikely that you will be able to remain in your apartment for much longer. The church is always here to help, and we would be more than happy to find a family to place you with. Although, in your case, I cannot guarantee that whoever we find would be able to understand your...gifts."

Aysa winced at his offer. She had known that the Dolohovs would not take her in, but seeing them at the funeral had given her a sliver of hope. Now, it was clear that she would have to fend for herself. Perhaps she could find a job in the deeper streets of magical Russia where no one would notice a girl who couldn't use a wand. She was beginning to come up with solutions that would hide her powers and keep her from starving when the foreigner spoke up.

"There is another option left to you," his voice echoed through the chambers of his translation charm. Aysa stared at him. "I am here on behalf of your father."

 _Her father?_ "I don't have a father," Aysa said before she could think otherwise. Her mother had never mentioned her father. She had certainly never mentioned that he was anything other than Russian. To Aysa, her father was a tall figure from her childhood dreams––more of an imaginary friend than anything else.

A disapproving expression crossed over the man's face. "Of course, you have a father."

"Who is he?" Aysa asked.

The man hesitated. "He's a colleague of mine."

Aysa frowned. That didn't explain anything. The man noticed her discontent. Before she could challenge him, he offered an explanation.

"He is a powerful wizard in the Ministry of Magic. He sent me to fetch you because he might be recognized by someone here. There would be questions, and he is not the sort of man who likes questions."

It was surely a threat to quiet Aysa, but she couldn't bring herself to care. She'd heard of the Ministry of Magic before. They were the magical governing body in charge of the United Kingdom and one of the leading law-establishing authorities in the world. When the Ministry of Magic passed a law, the rest of magical Europe quickly followed. Aysa couldn't quite believe the man. The figment of her imagination that had crafted itself into her father had never been a politician. He had certainly never been English. He had been a simple Russian man––usually a muggle like Valeriya's own father. Her imaginings were as far away from the truth as possible.

"The decision is yours to make," Vladika Pietre said. "You can stay here or go to your father's house in England."

Aysa hesitated for a moment. She had only ever known Russia. The idea of leaving her homeland to live with a stranger she had never met before––a stranger who her mother had never spoken of––was terrifying. Could she keep her gifts a secret from her father?

And then, the foreigner made the decision for Aysa in five words, "He will keep you safe."

There was no question as to who _he_ was, just as there was no question as to why Aysa must be kept safe. Somehow, he knew the truth. Whether or not the man before her knew, Aysa was not sure, but he was loyal to her father. Him being here proved that. If this man was loyal to her father, then surely other men were too. That made him the type of wizard who could keep her safe.

Aysa nodded at the foreigner. "I will go." She watched as the words bounced down his translation charm. A moment later, they reached his ears. A small smile crossed his face. It was at that moment that Aysa realized that her life would never be the same.

She did not get much time to process the realization. She was swept out of the room with brisk goodbyes to the bishop. The foreigner took her arm and side-apparated to the Petrova's apartment. All of her mother's Dark artifacts were packed into an enchanted chest beside the fireplace. With directions to pack, the man collected the trunk and dragged it towards the fireplace.

Aysa walked into her room and began to pack her things. She pulled her mother's enchanted suitcase out of the bottom of her wardrobe––she wouldn't need it anymore––then set about disassembling her room. The homemade quilt from her grandmother was pulled from Aysa's bed. She reached into her wardrobe and tossed all of her clothing inside, not bothering to fold them. The suitcase swallowed them up. Next came her books. Aysa had more books than she did clothes. Piles and piles of books––of both muggle and wizard origin––were set inside the case until every single one of Aysa's shelves was empty.

Finally, she pulled the antique chess set out from under her bed. It was a wizard's chess set––one of the only things her grandmother had taken from her old life. The figurines were intricately cast of silver, set up to look like czars and czarinas from throughout history. Aysa loved the chess set. She'd spent many afternoons stooped over it, thinking three moves ahead as she tried to out-think her mother. She's seen Catherine the Great slash down Ivan the Terrible with a sword. It never failed to entertain her.

With the chess set packed into her suitcase, Aysa latched it, locked it, and dragged it out to the main room. The suitcase held anything that was placed inside, but it did nothing to change the weight of all of the objects. The foreigner frowned at her. He took the suitcase from her, placing it on top of her mother's chest. As he muttered about girls and packing, a picture on top of the mantle place caught Aysa's attention.

It was from only a few months before the Pox had arrived. Every year when the snow melted, Valeriya would pack a picnic basket and drag Aysa out to the countryside. She had complained about it every year. She'd always hated when the snow started to melt. Now, Aysa wished that she could go one more time. She barely had time to snatch the picture off of the mantle before the man pulled her through the floo network, and Aysa left the only home she had ever known.

.

.

Draco Malfoy was avoiding his arithmetic tutor. At eight years old, Draco didn't understand why he needed to learn arithmetic. After all, he was a wizard, and he did not need math to do magic. He especially wouldn't need it once he was finally able to get his wand. His tutor, a stout man by the name of Brix who's idea of humor extended to math jokes with the occasional very poorly timed history joke that Draco didn't understand, didn't even notice when Draco slipped away from his lesson. He kept rambling as the door opened and closed, and Draco locked him inside.

With the afternoon free, Draco was tempted to head outside. He could practice flying on his broom and be back in his lessons before his mother, father, or tutor even noticed he was missing. With the plan in mind, Draco strolled towards the gardens. As he passed his father's office, he froze. The door was cracked open just enough for Draco to see the floo network roar to life. A second later, his father stepped through alongside a wide-eyed girl.

"Wait here," Lucius Malfoy said as he stepped back through the fireplace. The girl did as he said, standing in the very center of the room. Draco watched her ice-blue eyes took in every crack and crevice of his father's office.

Lingering in the doorway, Draco took a moment to study her. She was a handful of years older than him, dressed in dark robes that were at least three decades out of fashion. Draco did not know if she qualified as pretty, but there was an unearthly air about her. The room seemed to freeze around her. Even from his position in the doorway, Draco could feel the quiet stillness that surrounded the tall girl. It felt peaceful, like a fresh layer of snow on a winter morning––cold but not unfriendly.

Lured inside, Draco pushed the door open. The girl turned towards him, startled by his sudden appearance. She said something in a language that Draco didn't understand. It was not French; Draco had learned that language since he was a child. The words felt inquisitive, so Draco pointed to himself. "Draco," he said slowly. "I'm Draco."

After a second, the girl nodded in understanding. "Aysa," she offered in turn.

 _Aysa_. A smile crept across Draco's face as the girl introduced herself to him. _Aysa_. It suited her. "What are you doing here?" he asked, forgetting for a moment that the girl did not understand a word he said. She stared at him, curiously.

Before Draco had the opportunity to find a way to speak to Aysa, green flames spilled out of the fireplace. He skated out of the door, escaping just as his father's foot emerged from the fire. Retreating back to his classroom, Draco decided that it was time that he learn another language.

.

.

Aysa watched the little boy leave. He looked so much like the man who had brought her here that he couldn't be anything other than his son. She turned to the fireplace as the blond man stepped out. A moment later, he was followed by a second man.

This man was taller than the first. He reminded Aysa of one of the stars of the old muggle movies that her mother had loved to watch. His features were sharp and handsome. He had an air of importance about him. He studied Aysa as she studied him. She wondered what he thought of her. Did he see himself in her dark hair? Did he see her mother in her paperwhite skin? Did he see the shadow of death that was supposed to surround necromancers?

While they were staring at each other, the blond man slipped out of the room, closing the door, much as his son had. Just as it had been with Draco, there was no doubt in Aysa's mind. This man was her father. The features in her face mirrored his––although the nose and cheekbones that made him so handsome looked odd on a girl. She was paler than him, which Aysa knew that she had inherited from her mother. Only her eyes, the color of ice in the morning, seemed to be wholly original to her.

"You are Aysa," the man said in perfect Russian. It was not a question, but Aysa nodded in response. The man's dark eyes flicked over her. Did he see the similarities? He must have. "I am your father."

A million questions raced through Aysa's mind. Everything was uncertain. Everything. But first–– "What do I call you?" She did not know if it was appropriate to call him her father. He seemed too important for such a title.

The man hesitated. "My name is Tom Riddle," he answered after a moment. "It would be best if no one knows that, however. I do not care what you call me. I never expected to have a daughter, especially not one who is a…" He trailed off, but Aysa knew what he wanted to say. Did he hate her for being a necromancer? Would he rather she were an ordinary witch?

"I am a very powerful man," Tom Riddle explained. "I have enemies everywhere. If anyone were to discover my connection to you, they would try to use it to their advantage. They would hurt you to do so. Do you understand what I am saying?"

Aysa nodded. "It's a secret."

"Yes." Riddle stepped closer to her, holding her gaze with his own. "Aysa, your mother asked that I protect you from the Ministry and others who would seek to use your talents for themselves. I will, but no one can know of our connection. I have thought about sending you to the American Institute of Magic, but there would be questions."

"There will be questions everywhere," Aysa said before she could think better. She held her breath, waiting to see if her father got angry, but he only nodded thoughtfully.

"Nearly everywhere," her father agreed. "There is one place that will not ask questions."

"Where?"

Riddle offered Aysa his arm. "I'll show you." As she took her father's arm, Aysa wondered about the picture they painted. Side by side, they looked like father and daughter. She felt the tugging at her stomach that indicated apperation. A second later, the room folded around them.

They were spat back out in an apartment. The first thing that Aysa noticed was the fireplace. A fire roared in the hearth, filling the entire apartment with stifling heat. The room seemed to press in on Aysa. The heat surrounded her, wrapping her in a suffocating blanket. Quickly, Aysa raced across the room, throwing open the doors to the balcony. The winter air rushed inside, and Aysa finally felt like she could breathe.

"You like the cold," Riddle commented thoughtfully.

Aysa nodded. She preferred the cold. She could live with the summer heat because it was naturally occurring, but the man-made heat of fire felt wrong in the middle of winter. Riddle dimmed the fire but didn't put out the flames.

Aysa turned her focus to her surroundings. What she had initially thought was a balcony was actually a patio on top of the roof, stretching between two apartments. A thin layer of snow coated the roof. Aysa padded across it to the railing and peered at the street below. People milled about the muddle street, keeping their heads down as they moved about their tasks. Their clothes were worn.

"Why won't they ask questions?" Aysa asked her father.

"This apartment is located in one of the streets off of Knockturn Alley. People don't ask questions here."

 _So they have just as much to hide as I do_ , Aysa realized. Content with that explanation, Aysa turned back to the apartment, leaving the doors open behind her.

The room that Aysa had rushed from was a seating area. A handful of armchairs sat around the fire. Tall bookshelves lined the wall to the left, already filled with Aysa's books. She arched an eyebrow. How did her father manage to unpack her suitcase without her seeing? Upon further inspection of the bookcases, Aysa noticed that one of them was filled with books that didn't belong to her––English books. Aysa grabbed the first one she noticed off of the shelf. Flipping the books open, Aysa noticed the name scrawled in the front cover. She couldn't read it, but she was certain is said 'Tom Riddle.'

Aysa glanced at her father. He ignored her, focusing on inspecting the room instead. "Do you speak or read English?"

"No." Aysa shook her head.

"That must be fixed immediately. You'll find that the first book on the top shelf is enchanted to instruct you in learning languages. You'll have to practice to be able to speak properly." Riddle thought for a moment. "Every Sunday night, you shall come to my estate unless I instruct you otherwise."

"This isn't your house?" Aysa was surprised.

"Of course not," Riddle answered as if her question had been foolish. "This apartment is yours."

"Mine?"

"Yes."

Aysa studied the apartment around her. The living area led to a fully-stocked kitchen. To her left, there was a hallway that led to a bedroom and bathroom. Altogether, the apartment was nearly as large as the one she had shared with her mother in Russia. Aysa stared at her father in shock.

"I have enrolled you in a correspondent school for every non-magical subject. It will begin as soon as you have mastered English," Riddle said. "Then, you will have the few books I have found on necromancy."

Aysa did not know what to say. Her mother had homeschooled her since she first started to show signs of magic, which meant that she knew a lot about Dark artifacts, but not about anything else. She would finally have the opportunity to explore school, like the characters in her favorite books.

"Thank you," she said.

Riddle frowned at her thanks.

"You could have turned me over to the Ministry," Aysa explained. "Or left me in Russia."

Riddle's frown deepened at Aysa's explanation. "I would not leave a child of mine to be raised in an orphanage. You can never be my heir, but you are still my blood."

Aysa did not know how to respond to that, so she remained quiet. Riddle had turned thoughtful, lost in memories that he was unwilling to share. A few moments later, he left Aysa with a promise to have food delivered that afternoon. Aysa watched her father disappear through the flames.

She wandered into her bedroom. Aysa's suitcase had been unpacked. Her clothes now filled the wardrobe that sat beside a window. On her bed, her grandmother's chess set rested beside the picture of Valeriya. Aysa placed the picture on her bedside table, and then she began to play herself in chess.

.

.

Lionel Hurst made it his job to know everything about the Lower Alleys. If the King were to find out, Leo was certain that he'd get in trouble, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He loved the alleys that were neglected by the rest of the magical world. They were his home. They had been since he was able to walk. Even at thirteen, Leo cared about the people in the alleys as if they were his own family. He made it his business to look after them because he knew that no one else would. The King certainly wouldn't.

The afternoon sun was nearly blocked out by clouds when Leo strolled into a shop simply labeled _Books_. It was a used bookstore in Knockturn Alley that sold more than books––not that the Ministry needed to know that. It was run a frail old lady named Sally was so ancient that Leo was certain she had gone to daycare with Cleopatra.

"I hope you're not here to make trouble," Sally said as Leo stepped through the door.

Leo placed his hand over his heart in mock-offense. "Me? Make trouble? I would never do such a thing, Sally. You should know me better than that."

Sally scoffed. "That's exactly why I know you're here to make trouble."

"The good kind of trouble, though." Leo offered Sally a sly smile.

She shook her head. "That remains to be seen." She pulled a stack of used books out from underneath the check out counter and set to work organizing them. Most of them were of muggle origin, but the occasional spell book slipped between cookbooks and erotic novels.

Leo leaned against the counter, keeping one eye on Sally and one on the door. Snooping around in Knockturn Alley could lead to trouble, but Leo was curious by nature. If curiosity was going to kill this cat, then he hoped that the secrets would be worth dying for.

"I was walking by your lovely shop the other day when I noticed the lights on in the upstairs apartment," Sally grunted. Leo took it as encouragement to continue prodding. "I take it you've finally sold it?"

"Yes."

"Who to?"

Sally shrugged. "I don't know the real owner. Only met with them through owl mail. Paid it all upfront and asked not to be disturbed."

Leo frowned. Someone asking not to be disturbed was never a good sign. Plenty of shady types took up residence in the alley, but he preferred the ones who would join the community to those who would hole themselves up and get in trouble with the law.

"You said you hadn't met the real owner," Leo pointed out, "That means that you've met someone who's living there."

"I have."

"What are they like?"

Sally's eyes narrowed at Leo. "Why's it matter to you?"

"I like to know who's living in the alleys," Leo explained. "Besides, I'm a great friend to have."

"I don't think so. You should leave the poor girl alone," Sally said. Leo grinned. This was her way of telling him who was living in the upstairs apartment.

"So, it's a girl."

"Did I say that?"

"You did. What's she like? What age is she? Why's she living in the lower alleys?"

"I don't know." Sally ignored Leo, continuing to mark her books with seemingly arbitrary prices.

"How do you not know? Have you talked to her?"

"I've seen her once," Sally explained, "and I'm not sure that she can talk. At least, I don't think she talks English. She's only been living there for two weeks, and she hasn't come down once."

"If she won't come down, then I'll have to find another way to talk to her."

Sally shook her head. "I told you to leave the poor girl alone, Leo, and I mean it. I don't know where she comes from, but if she wants to be invisible, then we should let her be. Besides, you and she don't even speak the same language."

"You're right."

Leo didn't speak the same language as the girl––whatever language that was––but he knew someone who did. Nearly a year earlier, a tall boy with red hair had veered off of Diagon Alley, finding a place for himself amongst the odd characters who populated it. His name was Will, and he had a secret talent. He was a Speaker. He could understand and speak every language ever created.

If Leo was going to break into the girl-who-did-not-speak-English's apartment, he was going to take Will with him.

.

.

Aysa wouldn't have realized that it was her birthday if it weren't for the magical calendar that sat on her kitchen counter, marking the days off one by one. A part of her wondered if her father would visit to celebrate, but Aysa quickly dismissed the idea. Other than the first time, Tom Riddle never visited her. They met once a week for a brief, stilted dinner, during which Riddle would encourage Aysa to speak in his tongue, and she would fail. She hated the look of disappointment in his eyes when she did.

English was a hellish language. It established rules and then failed to follow them. Letters with distinct sounds suddenly became silent when paired up with other letters. Worst of all, Aysa hated articles. Russian did not have so many unnecessary words. She could not understand why the English felt the need to put the word ' _the'_ before everything. It made every sentence twice as long as it needed to be.

Turning the page of the language book, Aysa glanced up from the desk sitting in front of the wall of windows leading to the roof. Her eyes focused on the snow outside. It drifted down slowly. There was much less of it than there was back home. Aysa missed the snowstorm that usually hit Moscow around her birthday. She missed celebrating with her mother, who would present her with a collection of new books fresh from the press. Her birthday would never be the same.

A figure suddenly jumped onto the rooftop. Aysa's eyes narrowed. It was a boy around her age, with dark hair and wiry limbs. A second later, he was followed by another boy. This one was older––tall, with his bright red hair stuffed under a stocking cap. He frowned at the other boy and said something in English. The other boy rolled his eyes.

He approached the rooftop doors, quickly noticing Aysa where she sat. He smiled and waved at her, asking something in English. Through the thin glass, Aysa understood a few of his words. "Can - - us -?" He stared at Aysa expectantly.

The red-haired boy stepped up beside him, saying in perfect Russian, "What my idiotic friend wants to know is if you'll let us in."

Aysa stared at the boy who spoke Russian. "What's your name?" Aysa asked him.

"Will," he said, "and this dumbass is Leo."

"Are you Russian?" Will shook his head. Aysa frowned. "Then how do you speak it?"

A wry smile crossed the boy's face. "If you let us in, I'll tell you."

Aysa considered him for a moment. Will and Leo were complete strangers. They could be highly dangerous criminals for all she knew––after all, she lived in Knockturn Alley. They could kill her and steal all of her belongings. Common sense told Aysa not to let the boys inside, but her loneliness won out in the end. It had been two weeks since she talked to anyone other than her father, and longer since she'd talked to anyone her own age––she didn't think the young boy with the blond hair counted.

Closing her book, Aysa stood and unlocked the rooftop door, letting the cold air inside along with Will and Leo. They quickly shut the door behind them. Aysa crossed her arms. "I let you in. Tell me how you speak Russian."

"I'm a Speaker," Will said casually. Aysa's eyes widened. Speaking was a magical gift like Empathy or Metamorphasis that allowed a wizard to understand every language.

"Lucky," Aysa muttered, thinking about the uncomfortable dinners with her father.

"It's a gift and a curse." Will pulled off his hat and coat, tossing them onto Aysa's countertop. Now that he was out of the cold, Aysa could see him more clearly. He was very tall with freckles all over his face. His red hair reached down to his shoulders and his ears were pierced. He was probably a few years older than her, somewhere around sixteen or seventeen.

Leo spoke again, causing Will to respond quickly. With a hesitant glance at Aysa, Leo pulled out his wand and cast a spell.

"What did you tell him?" Aysa asked.

"That if he wants to know what we're saying, he should cast a translator spell. We're counting on you not to tell on him for doing underage magic."

"I won't," Aysa promised. She did not mention that she hated the way translator spells sounded. "I am working on learning English, but I don't like it. It's…" Aysa searched for the right word to describe her hatred for English.

"Complicated?" Will supplied. Aysa nodded. "I could teach you if you like. Speaking gives me an easier understanding of how languages work. I could help you."

"I would like that."

"Okay, I only caught the last half of that, but did you just agree to teach her English?" Leo asked. Will nodded. Leo huffed. "I wish I were a Speaker. But, no! I have to have a mediocre talent for battle magic."

"I do not know if anyone would call your abilities mediocre," Will said. "Especially not after they've seen you free dual."

Aysa glanced back and forth between the boys. They seemed friendly enough, and, as it did not appear that they wanted to kill her, she finally allowed her shoulders to relax. The tension eased from her body.

Leaving the boys alone, she filled the kettle up with water and placed it on the stove to boil. She didn't have much experience with the English, but she was fairly certain that they liked tea. Having stripped off his jacket, Leo collapsed into one of the armchairs before the fire. Will remained standing, his gaze following Aysa as she moved about the kitchen.

"What's free dueling?"

"It's like regular dueling only better," said Leo. "It requires much more prowess and finesse. Your opponent can use any weapon they desire––not just a wand. Most people free duel with their wand and a knife, though. You wanna learn?"

Aysa weighed the pros and cons of free dueling before responding. No one could know about her magic, so she would have to duel without using it, but she wanted––no, needed––to learn how to defend herself. If the Ministry ever came knocking, Aysa needed to be prepared. "I would like to learn," Aysa said, "even if I cannot use magic."

Will and Leo shared a look at her statement, but neither asked her about her lack of magic or her unwillingness to use it. Leo clapped his hands together. "That's great. So, Will's teaching you English, and I'm teaching you free dueling. What will you teach us?"

Aysa hesitated. She hadn't been aware that the boys' proffered help would cost her. She couldn't share any of her magic with them without risking her own safety. She didn't have her mother's chest of Dark artifacts anymore, so she could not teach them how to recognize, neutralize, and catalog enchanted items.

"Leo's just joking," Will began, "You don't have to-"

"I can teach you chess." She could have taught them how to cook too––she had gotten rather good at it while her mother had been sick––but she did not think that two wizards would have any desire to learn how to cook.

"I know how to play chess." Will glared at Leo when he spoke, but the younger boy ignored her.

"But you do not know how to win."

Leo's head cocked to the side. He considered Aysa's offer. Will shook his head, obviously disappointed in his friend. Before Leo could barter with Aysa, Will said, "We'd love to play you in chess. Wouldn't we, Leo?"

"I suppose." Leo shrugged. "Do you have a name, or should I call you Chess Girl?"

"Aysa."

"Aysa what?"

"Petrova."

Leo grinned. "Aysa Petrova, it's wonderful to have you as part of the neighborhood. I am Lionel Hurst, but everyone calls me Leo. This is Will."

Aysa arched an eyebrow towards the ginger boy. "Will what?"

"Just Will," he said.

Aysa didn't pester him for his last name. If he didn't want anyone to know, then that was his business. After all, he wasn't the only one with secrets.

The kettle started whistling. Aysa poured the tea into cups. She hoped they didn't mind peppermint––it was the only type of tea that Aysa could stand. After handing the cups to the boys, Aysa retreated to her room and collected her grandmother's chess set. She set it down a few feet away from the fireplace, taking a seat on the ground before it. Will sat opposite her. Leo climbed down from his chair to sit between them.

"That's a very pretty chess set," Leo commented. Aysa didn't bother to glance his way, focusing on arranging the pieces instead. Leo was fishing for information about her, but she would not give it to him.

"Do you know the rules of chess?" Aysa asked Will.

He nodded. "My dad taught me and my siblings."

"You have siblings?" Leo asked.

Aysa was surprised by his question. If Leo was asking Will questions, then Aysa was not the only unknown entity in the room. She had assumed that Leo and Will were good friends, but apparently they were not good enough friends for Will to tell him about his family. It reassured Aysa. If Will could make friends and keep secrets, then maybe she could too.

Will nodded. "Although I have to warn you, Aysa, I'm pretty good at chess."

"He's the best I've ever played against," Leo added.

"We'll see."

Since he was her guest, she let Will go first. "Pawn to E4."

Aysa matched him. "Pawn to E5."

"Bishop to C4."

Aysa's eyes narrowed. She recognized a Scholar's Mate when she saw one. Instead of blocking, she took a different path. Never taking her gaze off of the board, Aysa played along with Will's strategy, lulling him into a false sense of security as she lined up her queen.

A few moments later, Will stared at the board as a figurine of Catherine the took his knight, coming to a stop two spaces away from his king. He could take the queen, of course, but then Aysa's bishop would take the king. "Checkmate."

Leo laughed. "She got you, Will. In four moves, too. I don't think I've ever seen anyone destroy you so thoroughly."

"I was distracted," Will argued without taking his gaze off the board. His eyes traced over the path Aysa had taken to beat him.

"Distracted by what?"

Will didn't respond to Leo. Instead, he turned to Aysa. "You're good."

"I know." Aysa didn't mean to sound arrogant, but she couldn't help it. She was good, and she knew it. "You went in with a rigid plan. That was your first mistake. You have to be able to adapt to the moves that your opponent makes. Thinking three moves ahead is important, but you must have multiple plans in order to win."

Will nodded. Determination set into his jaw. "Let's go again."

Aysa played Will. She played him as the sun set and the longest night of the year began. The games got longer with the shadows. Leo watched every match and move with hungry eyes. She knew that he was taking her advice to heart, just as Will was. They didn't ignore her just because she was a girl and didn't have the same magic as them like the boys back home did. They listened to her every word and didn't get mad when she won. They respected her skill.

For the first time since her mother died, Aysa smiled.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! From here on out, dialogue spoken entirely in another language will be written in italics as well as being denoted. Anyways... Enjoy!

There was a package on her rooftop when Aysa awoke the morning of December 25th. It was wrapped in black silk. She could feel the weather-proofing spells on it as she opened the rooftop doors and brought it inside. She set it on the kitchen countertop and simply stared at it for a moment, wondering who could have left it outside. 

There were three obvious options: Leo, Will, or her father. Ever since they demanded entrance into her flat four days earlier, Leo and Will had become constant fixtures in her living room. Will dropped by every morning at ten and they would spend a couple of hours practicing English and playing chess. Aysa liked Will. He was nice and did not ask many personal questions, unlike other  _ certain _ people.

Leo made a habit of dropping by when Aysa least expected it. She did not know if he was trying to catch her off-guard or simply decided to visit her whenever he fancied, but Aysa found herself searching for the sound of footsteps breaking through snow during the quiet moments. Leo noticed everything, so Aysa was more on-edge when he was around, but it was obvious that he cared. Why? She didn’t know, but she liked that he cared enough to be nosy––even if it made her life more difficult. 

The question of the sender is answered the moment that Aysa opened the package. A large book with a black, dragon-hide cover rest inside. The book was locked shut, and Aysa knew why. It exuded Dark magic. Aysa could feel it drifting from the cover, trying to penetrate her skin. Had she been anything other than she was, the magic would have terrified her, but she’d grown up surrounded by Dark artifacts. She was a necromancer. Dark magic called to her. 

She wondered what Will and Leo would think if they knew that. Leo’s magic was hard to get a read on, but Aysa thought that he was somewhere in the middle of the spectrum. Will, on the other hand, was so obviously Light that it hurt. What would they think if they knew that their new friend wasn’t a squib but a Dark witch? 

Aysa pushed the thought away. Dwelling on theoreticals wouldn’t help her. Instead, she reached for the black notecard sitting on top of the book. Written in silver ink was a note:  _ It opens to a necromancer’s touch.  _ There were no well wishes on it or cheeky jokes. In fact, there seemed to be an underlying irritation to the words as if the writer was annoyed that the book would not open for him. This was a gift from her father. Staring at the book, Aysa wasn’t sure how much of a gift it really was.

Slowly, she reached out and touched the lock. She could feel the machinations beneath her fingertips as they began to move, twisting open. A second later, the lock sprung open alongside the book. Aysa watched letters dance across the page. They did not look to be English or Russian. They weren’t in any language that Aysa could recognize. She couldn’t read the script, but she still understood what it said. 

_ The Magic of Death and Life.  _

Aysa’s fingers traced over the letters.  _ Necromancy _ . She wondered who had written the book and how they had written it. How was it that Aysa could read the words without knowing the letters? 

She flipped to the next page. Pleasure blossomed in her chest as she read over the table of contents: _The Art of Necromancy; A Complete History of Necromancers; Communicating with the Dead; Seeing the Future; Collecting Souls; The Afterlife; Ghosts; Healing; Adapting Wizard Spells; Adapting Goblin Spells; Black Magic_. The list went on and on, covering every topic Aysa could imagine until it ended with two simple words: _Greeting_ _Death_.

Aysa thumbed through the pages, planning on reading the last section first, when a knock interrupted her plans. She jumped. The knock did not come on the rooftop doors, but on the front door. She eyed it suspiciously. The only person who came to her door was Will, but he’d told her he was busy today. Leo still climbed the roof even though he didn’t need to and her father sent letters. No one knocked on the front door. 

Hiding the book in one of the kitchen cupboards, Aysa went to the door. There was no peephole to see who was on the other side, so Aysa had to use another method. Placing her hand on the thin wood, Aysa felt for the lifeforce on the other side. She was met by the signature of an old woman with a little bit of magic and a curious energy. Aysa recognized the signature. She felt it pass beneath her every day. It was the old woman who owned her building––Sally, Leo had called her. 

Aysa opened the door. Sally stood on the landing. She was older than Aysa had imagined, with so many wrinkles that she looked like an over-ripe squash. She smiled at Aysa, who didn’t smile back.

“Can I help you?” Aysa asked in English. She was proud of herself for doing so, even though her accent was very thick.

“You speak English?” Sally seemed surprised. Perhaps she was.

“Little bit.”

Sally nodded. A second later, her wand dropped out of her sleeve and she pointed it to her throat. When she next spoke it was through the echoing chamber of a translation spell. “ _ I cannot keep this up long, but I was wondering if you would like to join me downstairs for a little celebration. No one should be alone during the holidays _ .”

Aysa’s eyes narrowed. “ _ What holiday? _ ”

“ _ Christmas, of course. _ ” Sally’s eyes widened. “ _ Have you never celebrated Christmas? I know that some magical communities don’t celebrate the holiday. _ ”

“ _ I’ve celebrated Christmas. It’s in January where I am from. _ ”

“ _ January? Why would you celebrate Christmas in January? _ ”

Aysa shrugged. She did not know the reason Russians celebrated Christmas in January, and she did not really care.

“ _ Well, I just need to show you a proper English Christmas. What do you say? _ ”

After a moment of consideration, Aysa nodded and followed Sally down the stairs.

.

.

Christmas at the Burrow never failed to be eventful. William Weasley didn’t mind the noise. He loved the bustle of Christmas morning––the smiles on his siblings’ faces as they opened what few presents sat beneath the tree––the smells that drifted out of the kitchen. This Christmas the Weasley’s large extended family had decided to join them. Everyone from Great Aunt Muriel to Uncle Fabian came. The Burrow was packed. Already used to the chaos of his siblings, the eldest Weasley was fine with sharing a room with his two closest brothers for the duration of the stay. At least he wasn’t Ron, stuck with Fred and George until the Burrow cleared out.

He’d spent most of his winter holidays in the lower alleys. Sometimes, as he sat across the table from his parents, listening to Arthur ramble about muggle artifacts or Molly scolding the twins for doing something they weren’t supposed to, he wondered if his parents noticed the vanishing act he pulled so frequently. Probably not. The moment that William Weasley was old enough to know right from wrong, his parents had left him to his own devices. They had six other children that needed taking care of, and their oldest had never been nurturing enough to look after them, so they left him alone.

At home, he was Bill Weasley, the eldest of the Weasley boys. He was not the smartest of the bunch––that title belonged to Percy––nor was he the most mischievous––that was Fred and George. He was not the long-awaited girl––that was Ginny––nor was he the beloved disappointment––that was Ron. Charlie had gained the titles of Pyromaniac and trouble-seeker when he was a toddler. Bill had only ever been the eldest. He was the first, but that didn’t really seem to mean anything to his parents. 

When he was young, Arthur had occasionally sat Bill down to pass on his knowledge of the world, but, as more and more siblings kept arriving, Arthur had less and less time to spend with his son. Bill didn’t dislike his siblings, but he resented them occasionally. His parents would brag about him, but their praise had always felt strange. It was always, “Percy is so gifted,” or “Charlie tried to smuggle a dragon egg out of Diagon Alley,” or “Fred and George nearly blew up their room creating a new potion,” followed by “Oh, and Bill is doing well in school.”

He knew that if he’d told his parents about his Speaking ability, they would have shouted it from the rooftops. Bill would have become gifted in their eyes. He had almost shared it when he’d discovered it, but something had stopped him. He’d longed to be appreciated his entire life, but now that he had the ability to change his parents’ perception of him, he felt lost. If they didn’t dote over him before, why would a magical gift change anything?

Bill felt like an afterthought. He knew that his youngest brother, Ron, felt the same. If he were a different person, Bill may have sought out Ron’s company, confiding in his brother and sharing his fears, but Bill had never been good with children. A nine-year age gap between Ron and himself meant that they didn’t have much to talk about. For a long time, Bill felt out of place in his own family.

And then he’d found the lower alleys. 

It had been a mistake. During his fifth year, Bill had gone to meet some friends from school in Diagon Alley and ended up in Knockturn instead. There was a reason people said not to floo when you’re tired. Bill had shot out of the fireplace at Borgin’s and Burke’s and been promptly chased out of the store by Borgin himself. He’d found himself in Knockturn Alley, just a little way off the beaten path. Bill could have found his way to the place he was supposed to be meeting his friends, but he hadn’t wanted to. There was something alluring about the lower alleys.

He’d wandered down the alley, peering into shop windows and skating by sketchy figures in dark robes. When he’d peered into the window of the local potion shop, he’d found a pair of hazel eyes peering back at him. A second later, the door to the shop had been thrown open and Leo Hurst seemed to apparate before him. 

Bill hadn’t known what to make of Leo Hurst at first––he still didn’t know what to make of the younger boy. He was loud and talked more than Bill had imagined anyone could. He seemed to know everyone in the alleys, from the shopkeepers to the orphans in the streets. He had taken an immediate shine to the eldest Weasley, although Bill could never figure out why. Leo Hurst was a good person to have by your side in the lower alleys. He was witty, and cunning, and a scrappy fighter. But what Bill liked most was that Leo didn’t know who he was.

Leo didn’t go to Hogwarts and had little experience in pureblood society. His entire life revolved around Knockturn, so he didn’t know the trademark Weasley looks. Bill was sure that he’d heard of the Weasleys before––he may have even heard of Bill Weasley––but he would never imagine that he was friends with him.

In the lower alleys, he was Will. Just Will. He was smart and crafty––a problem solver. He was good at free dueling, though nowhere close to Leo, and had won his fair share of fights. He was respected in the alleys. Not for being the heir to one of the largest Light families in England, but for his skills––his own merits. Bill liked being Will. He liked being another one of the mysteries of Knockturn Alley. If he could, he would always be Will.

“I see you’re lingering around the edges as usual.” Uncle Gideon suddenly appeared behind Bill, startling him out of his musings. 

“I’m not lingering,” Bill protested weakly. He was. As much as he loved Christmas with the Weasleys, he never threw himself into the festivities. He watched Fred and George do their best to traumatize Ginny––unsuccessfully, he may add––but never did anything to stop them. He liked to watch more than he enjoyed being a part of the chaos.

“I know a fellow lingerer when I see one.” Gideon grinned. “Some people are meant to disappear in the noise. It makes life more interesting.”

Bill gaped at his uncle. Did Gideon know about his trips to the lower alleys? It seemed impossible, and yet… There was a glint in Gideon’s eyes as he spoke, as if he and Bill were in on a joke that no one else could understand.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t you?” Gideon arched an eyebrow. “You know, your mother had such hopes for you becoming a prefect last year. You get good grades and don’t stir up too much trouble. It seemed inevitable, but the position went to that Macmillan boy instead, who everyone knew had gotten caught after curfew with his fair share of witches. Molly complained for weeks about you getting shafted.”

Bill winced at his uncle’s comment. If his mother knew that he’d gone into McGonagall’s office the last day of his fourth year and requested not to be made a prefect, she’d probably kill him. But he hadn’t wanted the responsibility of patrolling the hallways and attending pointless meetings. He’d wanted to spend his free time dueling, hanging out with his friends, and studying curse-breaking. Being a prefect would get in the way of that. 

“The Macmillans are very well connected,” Bill commented. 

“They certainly are.” Gideon nodded. “You’d never catch one of them in Knockturn Alley.”

It took all of Bill’s willpower not to flinch. He schooled his face into an impassive expression, focusing Charlie’s efforts to transfigure an ornament into a dragon egg. “I suppose not.”

He could feel Gideon’s piercing eyes on him. Bill had questions, but he was too afraid to voice them in the middle of a family gathering. He didn’t know who could be listening. 

“You ever met Ed?”

Bill was almost certain that Gideon was talking about Edgar Krait, the owner of Serpent's Storeroom Apothecary. He was a thin, rugged man who Bill had only talked to a handful of times. He was nearly the exact opposite of Gideon Prewett, who had worn a fine, woolen cape and dragon-hide Oxford shoes to a family event. 

_ How did Gideon Prewett know Edgar Krait?  _

“I don’t know anyone who calls themself ‘Ed,’” Bill said. 

“Really?” Gideon hummed. “That’s a shame. He’s a friend of mine from my youth. Occasionally, I stop by to catch up over a pint, like I did Wednesday.”

Bill froze. Two days earlier, on Wednesday, he’d been in the alleys. After spending a couple of hours helping Aysa learn English, he’d dropped by the Dancing Dragon to chat with Leo, who was snooping around in Aysa’s business too much for Bill’s liking. Living in the lower alleys was supposed to mean you were left alone, but not once Leo Hurst decided that you were worthy of being his friend. After Aysa had mentioned not having magic, Leo had started finding out which magical families may have had a squib in the past thirteen years. Even with Knockturn prices, Aysa’s flat was not cheap. Unless she was secretly an heiress, which Bill doubted, someone else was paying for that flat––someone who could be a danger to her in the future. Leo just wanted to make sure Aysa was safe if that day ever came, but she was obviously hiding other things. As someone with his own secrets, Bill had wanted to make sure that Leo didn’t pry too much. 

He’d seen Krait in the Dancing Dragon that day, but had thought nothing of it. It wasn’t odd to see the potioneer in the pub. Now, Bill was wishing that he’d paid more attention. 

“That sounds nice,” Bill said.

“It was. People like Ed can be nice, even if they don’t live in the best parts of town. The key is to make sure that you don’t get caught up in their world.” Gideon’s voice was serious. “You’re the heir to one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, Bill. No matter how hard you try, you’ll always be a pureblood first. There are people who will want to hurt you for that––people who live in the same neighborhood as my friend Ed. Don’t get mixed up with those types.”

_ I already am _ , Bill thought. He wouldn’t give up his time in the lower alleys for anything. He didn’t tell Gideon that, though. He didn’t want his uncle to tell his parents where he escaped to. Instead, he said, “I won’t.”

Gideon nodded. “Good. Good.” And then he asked Bill about the classes that he was taking to prepare to become a curse breaker. Bill was more than happy to change the subject.

.

.

Rispah was tired. Christmas had come and gone with more political debates than a Wizarding Summit, two of which had ended in magical duels (one of which Rispah had started herself to avoid her grandmother’s questions about getting married and having children). New Years was on the horizon, and, while Rispah enjoyed that holiday a lot more because it meant getting drunk with Merek, she would inevitably do something stupid and was not looking forward to that part. 

Pulling her cloak tighter around her body, Rispah trudged through the back alleys, heading for the Dancing Dragon. Her eyes flicked around as she walked, taking in every detail of her surroundings. She’d been a pickpocket once, so she knew what to look out for. The alleys were empty, though. It seemed that no one was foolish enough to wander around in the cold night—no one except Rispah herself. She snorted at the thought. She’d never thought of herself as an idiot—that title belonged to Leo. 

Rispah had just started to make out the bright lights of the Dancing Dragon when she spotted it. A scrap of tartan fluttered in the wind, half covered by the snow. She recognized the pattern; after all, you could count the number of Scotsmen who frequented the lower alleys on one hand and still have fingers left over. The tartan belonged to Brian Cranach, a jolly man who was always good for a drink and even better for a snog. He was friendly to strangers, which Solom always claimed would get him killed. As Rispah approached the alley, she felt the dread in her stomach grow. Solom had spoken the truth. 

Brian lay in the snow, his shocked face staring up at nothing. Rispah gagged. He did not smell bad—the cold had preserved his body fairly well—but Rispah hated to see him like this: lifeless and dead. It was unnatural. The sight of Brian’s body made Rispah’s stomach churn, but it was his eyes that scared her. Brian’s eyes were always a lovely shade of forest green. They had twinkled when he smiled and had flooded with fire when he was mad. They were expressive, and easily his best feature. The eyes staring up at Rispah weren’t Brian’s. 

Covered in the glassy sheen of death, silver irises peered sightlessly up at Rispah. Not grey—silver. They glinted like the precious metal. Rispah wondered briefly what it would feel like to reach out and touch them. Would she be met by cold stirling? 

Pushing the thought aside, Rispah turned away from Brian’s body. She closed her eyes, focusing on bringing forward a pleasant, heartwarming memory. Opening them, she summoned her patronus. A coyote sat patiently on the snow before her, leaving only the barest of footprints. 

“Get Solom,” she said. “We have a problem.” With a curious glance at Rispah, the coyote ran off into the night. 

.

.

The New Year passed by in a flurry of fireworks. Aysa had watched them from her roof with Sally. The colors danced across the sky, lighting up first Diagon Alley then the lower alleys. They weren’t intended for the people hidden away in the cracks of Wizarding society, but they were enjoyed by them all the same. 

Aysa liked Sally. The elderly woman was more than happy to sit in silence in her shop alongside Aysa, neither of them speaking as they read from the many books that lined the walls. Aysa was thankful for her companionship. She did not know how, but Sally understood what it was like to be a foreigner in the Lower Alleys. 

Three days after the fireworks show, Aysa found herself in Sally’s bookstore. Sitting behind the cash register, she flipped through the pages of a book that was meant to be easy to read in the English language. She was getting much better at identifying English words. She thought Will might have something to do with how quickly she was progressing with the language. Maybe his Speaker Magic was helping her. She could understand most of the language, even if she couldn’t speak a lot of it. 

Sally was in the back room—the one that was hidden behind a bookcase and couldn’t be opened by an  _ alohomora _ . She said that it was an inventory room, but Aysa knew better. There were Dark artifacts in the room. Aysa could feel them reaching out to her, calling to her own Dark magic. She didn’t tell Sally that she knew. Some things were better left secret. 

Bells rang as the front door creaked open. Leo slipped inside on a gust of chilly wind. He was wrapped in a cloak and scarf that made him seem smaller than he was. He grinned at Aysa. “What are your plans for today?” Leo asked, leaning against the front counter. Aysa waved her book in front of him, showing him her plans. “Really? You plan to spend the entire day reading?”

“Reading is good.” Aysa’s words sounded harsh to her ears.

“I know. I know.” Leo held his hands up in surrender. “Tell me, Aysa, how far into the alleys have you explored since arriving?”

Aysa frowned. She didn’t explore the alleys. She went to the market down the street for groceries, she spent her free time in Sally’s bookshop, and she’d occasionally watch people scurry about the alleys from her roof. She did not explore them. She did not know what she would find. Aysa did not like uncertainty, and everything about Knockturn Alley was uncertain. Besides, her father had expressed his desire for her to remain hidden. She did not want to anger the man. She was scared of what would happen if she did. Tom Riddle was nothing like Valeriya Petrova. Her mother had been dangerous yet loving—Tom was solely dangerous. 

“Don’t tell me you’ve been holed up in your flat this entire time?” Leo gasped incredulously. “You have. I must remedy this immediately.” Grabbing her hand, Leo dragged her out the front door, not even stopping to put on a coat. 

Aysa sighed as the cold air met her face, causing her cheeks to flush. She didn’t argue as Leo dragged her through the twisting alleys, instead enjoying the feeling of the icy air against her skin. The cold was her element. It always had been. 

Eventually, Leo stopped before an inn. It was worn by most standards, but in rather good shape by lower alley standards. With a grin, Leo dragged Aysa inside. “Welcome to the Dancing Dragon.” Leo swept his arm over the room, pointing at the bustling swarm of people inside. It was the most people Aysa had seen in one place since her mother’s funeral. There was something so British about the scene before her that made Aysa feel more foreign than she did in her flat. 

“What is this?” Aysa asked Leo. 

“A funeral,” was his answer. Aysa stared at him in confusion. This didn’t feel like a funeral. It didn’t feel sad, but rather happy instead. 

A beautiful woman with red hair laughed loudly at something the man beside her said, drawing the attention of everyone around her. Without letting go of her hand, Leo manufactured towards the woman, pulling Aysa along behind him. 

“Brian never stole from anyone, Merek,” said the woman. “He gave beggars his spare coins for Merlin’s sake.”

“That was part of his thing,” argued Merek. “Steal from the rich and give to the poor.” 

“That does sound like him,” Leo agreed, taking a seat at the table. He pulled Aysa down beside him a moment later. 

The woman shrugged in response. “Whatever you say. Who’s she?” 

“This is Aysa,” Leo answered before she could. “Aysa, this is my cousin Rispah, and her friend Merek.” 

Merek placed a hand over his heart in offense. “I’m hurt. I thought I was your friend too, little Leo.”

Leo ignored him. “Aysa’s Sally’s new renter.” 

“She’s the Russian?” Aysa didn’t like the feeling of Rispah’s eyes on her. They felt calculating as if they were trying to dig out her deepest secrets. She didn’t doubt that if anyone could succeed in discovering her secrets it was the woman in front of her. 

“I am,” Aysa said. 

“She speaks.” Rispah smiled. “I thought Leo and Will were planning on keeping you hidden away.”

“Now, why would I do that?” Aysa jumped at the sudden voice behind her. She whirled around to find Will carrying three pints in his hands. He offered her a smile as he slid the other two pints towards Rispah and Merek, taking the seat opposite Aysa. “I was planning on letting Aysa make her own decisions instead of dragging her everywhere I go.”

“There was no dragging-”

“He lies. There was much dragging.” Leo frowned at Aysa’s words as the rest of the table laughed. 

She liked the laughter. There hadn’t been a lot of laughter those last few months in the Petrova household. Her mother had smiled at Aysa, reassuring her that everything would be okay, but she’d cried at night. Aysa had pretended not to hear her sobbing through the walls. Death was always a fact of life—even more so when you’re a necromancer—but no one had expected Valeriya Petrova to die so young. 

“I apologize for your treatment at the hands of my cousin,” Rispah said. 

“There’s nothing to apologize for,” Leo protested. “I’ve been the perfect guide to the lower alleys, even if we haven’t gone anywhere since  _ someone  _ wants to hide away in her flat.” 

Aysa blushed at Leo’s words. She knew that he wanted her to get out more. He was probably right. The lower alleys were Aysa’s home now, whether she liked it or not. She should embrace them, yet, every time she was about to step out the door, Aysa stopped herself. She was in a foreign land with a language that she barely spoke and customs that were unfamiliar to her. She hadn’t even known that Christmas was celebrated in December instead of January. 

In all honesty, Aysa was scared of what lay beyond her door. She’d lead a sheltered life in Russia. She’d never had any close friends her own age. Valeriya had made sure to keep her out of polite Wizarding society in case her powers flared to life. At home, her only friends had been her mother, their neighbors the Valentinovichs, Vladika Pietre, and the handful of muggle children she’d met at church. Her world had never been as large as it now was. 

“Aysa can do what she wants,” Will argued. Aysa felt her heart warm at his words. Will never pushed her to do something that she didn’t want to do, even if it inconvenienced him. Yet there was something about Will’s faith in her that made Aysa want to be braver—to venture outside of her little flat and finally see the world. 

“Leo is right,” Aysa said. “I should go out.” 

Leo grinned. “See. I know what I’m doing.” Rispah looked skeptical at his statement. After that, the conversation shifted away from Aysa, turning towards telling stories of the man who had passed on: Brian Cranach. 

From the stories that they told and the laughs that they shared, he sounded like a good man. A kind man. Aysa felt sorry that she’d never gotten the opportunity to meet him. If the alleys were filled with more people like him, Aysa was sure that she’d be able to make a few more friends. She sat back and allowed the others to tell their tales. They were grieving. She was little more than a stranger, and a foreigner at that. She didn’t wish to intrude. 

The door banged open. The noise of the Dancing Dragon stopped. The cold air swept inside along with a man. He was tall, with a firm brow and sunken eyes. His thinning hair was swept into a ponytail at the nape of his neck. His clothes were fine, much finer than the average patron of the Dancing Dragon. Dark magic swirled around him. Aysa could feel whisps coming off of him, weaving through the air towards her, attracted by her own Dark magic. The man was imposing and dangerous––not someone you wanted as your enemy. 

The heels of his boots clicked against the floor as he strolled inside. His eyes scanned the crowd, lingering for a moment on Aysa. She froze. No. He wasn’t staring at her, but past her to Leo. He glanced at the boy for only a brief second before grabbing a pint from the bar. It wasn’t his, but the owner didn’t move to stop him. 

The man lifted the pint to the crowd. “To Cranach. May he rest in peace.” Murmured agreements followed. The man set his drink down. “Go back to your funeral.” He walked towards a hooded man in the corner, settling down beside him. The chatter slowly resumed, but with none of the liveliness of before. Aysa turned to her tablemates. None of them were talking. Instead, they all watched the mysterious newcomer. 

“Who is he?” Aysa asked quietly. 

For a moment, none of them answered. Finally, Will sighed and answered in Russian, “ _ Galahad La Croix. He’s the wizard in charge of these parts. _ ”

“ _ Like the Minister of Magic? _ ” Aysa was still confused by the British parliamentary system known as the wizgamont, but she was able to grasp the basic concepts of how their government worked. 

“ _ Kind of _ ,” Will answered. “ _ He is supposed to keep an eye out for the people of the Lower Alleys. Makes sure the Aurorers don’t poke their nose around too much––that sort of thing. _ ”

“What do you think brings him to these parts?” Leo asked. Aysa knew that he didn’t speak Russian, but she wasn’t surprised he’d figured out their topic of conversation. 

Will shrugged. “Dunno.”

Aysa glanced back and forth between the boys. Rispah and Merek had moved from the table, moving to talk to the old barkeep. Only the three of them remained. “Is him being here not normal?”

Wil and Leo shared a look. When Will answered it was in Russsian. “ _ He is a powerful wizard, but he keeps to himself. He’s been the King for ages. He used to care about people––look after orphans and stuff––but that changed a few years back. I didn’t know him before. Just now. He holes up in his house, only coming out to fight challengers.” _

Aysa nodded in understanding. Leo arched an eyebrow at Will. “Should I take up Russian too? You seem determined to make it our secret language.”

“There are others who speak Russian,” Will answered. 

“Such as?”

“The Dolohovs, for one.”

Aysa’s heart stopped. Dolohovs? Here? In England? She’d never heard of such a thing. They were a powerful branch in Russia, the purest of the pure. That was part of the reason they had rejected her mother so harshly. A halfblooded Dolohov was a disgrace. They’d tried to kill her multiple times. It wasn’t until Aysa was born that the assassination attempts stopped. She wasn’t sure of the details of how she’d convinced them to stop, but her mother had been a terrifying woman. 

As thoughts of the Dolohovs churned in Aysa’s mind, her gaze drifted towards Galahad and the hooded man. They weren’t speaking, simply staring at each other as they sat completely still. Suddenly, the hooded man reached into his pocket. A small figurine glinted in the candlelight as the man passed it towards Galahad. Aysa’s eyes narrowed. Perhaps she was imagining things, but the piece in between the hooded man’s fingers looked suspiciously familiar. It looked like a pawn. 

.

.

January passed by quickly. Soon, Will had to leave them. He wouldn’t tell them where he was going, but Leo suspected it was to go to a magical school like Hogwarts or the American Institute of Magic. “Probably the latter,” Leo had said. “I don’t think he’d be hanging out down here if he was a pureblood.” Aysa had agreed with him.

Most of her days were spent helping Sally in the story, although she did not know how much of a help she really was. For the most part, Aysa read while Sally sorted through books and artifacts. She especially loved the stack of magazines from a muggle publication called  _ Vogue _ . Sally had laughed when she noticed Aysa's choice in reading, muttering something about teenage girls all being the same. On the rare occasion, they had a customer, Aysa would try to practice her English. Some of them were happy to talk to her. Some of them just wanted to be left alone. Aysa quickly learned how to spot those types of people. 

Her English was improving every day. Some days were better than others. Will’s Speaker magic had definitely helped Aysa to learn. She only noticed how easy it had been to speak English around him after he was gone. She wished he’d come back if only so she didn’t feel so much like a fish out of water. Leo helped, but he wasn’t as good as Will.

Occasionally, Aysa ventured outside the shop to explore the lower alleys. There were so many nooks, crannies, and alleyways to discover. There were restaurants that oozed delicious smells and apothecaries that were filled with medicines that Aysa had never heard of. There was also danger lurking around every corner. Aysa avoided the places that felt particularly Dark. Some people were better left alone. 

Leo had started to teach her how to free duel, although she couldn’t use magic, only the knife that he gave her. Aysa hated it. While she liked the physical exercise it provided, she hated the confrontational nature of it. She really hoped she’d never have to duel anyone. She wasn’t very good at it.

When she wasn't helping Sally or exploring (occasionally with Leo by her side, telling her every bit of history about the alleys that he knew), Aysa was studying. She was enrolled in a correspondent course that covered basic muggle subjects, but that wasn’t what intrigued her. What intrigued her was the Necromancy book.

Aysa had never had the opportunity to truly explore the magic that had latched itself onto her. The magic of Life and Death. It was an unusual, temperamental magic. For a normal wizard it was nearly impossible to harness, only to occasionally tap into. Necromancy wasn’t like healing, although it could be used for such a thing. It was closest to legilimency. In order to properly direct the magic, one had to be fully connected to the wild magic surrounding them. They had to be able to hold another’s life force in their hands and to find their soul. As Aysa dove deeper into her learning, she discovered that it was not people’s signatures that she sensed but their souls––the very thing that made a person unique.

Every night before bed, Aysa started meditating. Closing her eyes, she would focus on the souls of the lower alleys. The more she meditated, the more she began to feel people’s souls, occasionally when she was awake. Sally had a quiet soul. It hummed softly through the floorboards, welcoming but reserved. Leo had a bright soul. It was loud and occasionally irritating, but there was an intelligence to it that grew every time Aysa sensed it. She liked seeing people’s souls. The more she learned, the more Aysa appreciated what her mother’s had felt like––warmth and love and acceptance. Valeriya Petrova had had a good soul. Aysa wondered what her own looked like. Did she even have a soul? 

That was a question that only another necromancer could answer. 

At the end of January, Sally kicked Aysa out of her bookstore before noon. “The weather’s too nice,” Sally insisted. “A young person like you should be enjoying the day, not spend it stuck inside with an old hag like me.” Sally slammed the door in Aysa’s face. It wasn’t an unfriendly slam, but the threat of what Sally would do if she returned in under an hour rested in it. With nothing else to do, Aysa turned to the alley.

As she meandered through the snow, Aysa found herself headed further and further from the heart of the lower alleys. Before she knew it, she had walked through Knockturn Alley into Diagon Alley. It was her first time in the famous wizarding alley. Sticking close to the wall, Aysa took a moment to study the people passing through the streets. They were considerably more shiny than Aysa was used to. Their robes billowed around them. The women wore skirts that bounced as they walked and the men wore elaborate robes. It looked beautiful.

In her plain, high-collared black dress, Aysa felt insignificant. Every witch she passed wore a dress that screamed for her to notice them. Their hair was tied in elaborate fashions. Aysa had never had any money to be truly fashionable. Eventually, she found herself on the southside of Diagon Alley, standing before a window to a shop called Twilfitt and Tatting. The window display was filled with beautiful robes in every color imaginable. 

Aysa sighed as she studied the clothes. She didn’t know the first thing about dresses, but she knew that these were fashionable. Chic.  _ Vogue _ . And she wanted one, even if she could not afford it. For the next hour, Aysa stood across the street from Twilfitt and Tatting, memorizing every robe in the windows. 

Three hours later, Aysa returned home with a brain full of ideas. First, she would have to learn how to sew. She was sure that Sally had some books she could borrow.

.

.

In the middle of February, a body was found frozen in the snow. A seventeen-year-old girl named Dru. Just Dru. She’d been small for her age, extremely petite and pretty. She’d bragged to her roommate about finally getting out. The roommate assumed she’d become a wealthy wizard’s mistress. Maybe she had. Whatever the truth, she vanished into thin air only to be found dead one week later.

When Aysa heard about it, she was saddened. The girl had only been a handful of years older than herself. 

“I forget to tell you the strangest part,” Leo whispered as they hid behind stacks of muggle records, “They say her eyes turned to silver.”

_ Eyes turned to silver _ , Aysa thought,  _ just like Brian Cranach. _

.

.

_ Dear Will, _

_ I hope this letter finds you. I didn’t know where to address it, or your last name, but I asked an owl to deliver it very nicely. Hopefully, that does the trick.  _

_ I don’t know if you heard, but they found a second body the other day. I say second because it is the second body that has been found with eyes of silver. Some sort of magic is doing this, and Leo is determined to get to the bottom of it, even though I think it’s a stupid thing to do. I don’t know if that boy has too much confidence or too much curiosity. Maybe both.  _

Sitting at the Gryffindor table, Bill chuckled as he read over Aysa’s letter. She had a point. He hoped that she was keeping out of danger. He knew for a fact that Leo could look after himself. 

_ Fortunately for me, this recent development has put an end to my free dueling lessons. I know that you were not there to see them, but please trust me when I say that they were horrible. I am not designed to wield a knife. Leo insists that I keep training now that there is a possible murderer in the alley. He’s got a point… _

_ Anyway, I’ve started making my own clothing. Sally had a very good book on designing patterns. She also had a stack of old fabric lying around. Isn’t that great? I’ve started sketching out outfits based on some old muggle magazines and the dresses I’ve seen in Diagon Alley. Have you ever been there? Everyone is dressed so brightly! I’ve already made a skirt.  _

Bill shook his head fondly. Aysa the Designer, who would have thought? As far as Bill had been aware, the girl only owned clothing that was black. He understood her desire to own fancy robes like the ones in the windows of Diagon Alley shops all too well. The Weasleys didn’t have money to spend on the latest fashions.

“What’re you readin’?” Bill didn’t have time to duck out of the way before Charlie had snatched the letter out of his hand. Damn those seeker skills. Charlie frowned as his eyes flicked over the page. “This is in Russian. You can read Russian?”

“It’s a hobby,” Bill lied. “I’ve enrolled in a pen pal program to improve my language skills. Knowing languages is important for a curse breaker.”

“What’s it say?” Charlie asked.

“That’s none of your business.” Bill tried to grab the letter back but Charlie danced out of the way. 

Charlie laughed. “So it’s your secret girlfriend?”

“No, it’s not.” 

Charlie obviously didn’t believe him. “Hey, Jarka!” 

Bill tackled Charlie to the ground as he managed to wrangle the letter out of his brother’s hand as Charlie’s best friend showed up. The Ravenclaw stared down at them with a frown. “What’s this about, boys?”

“Bill won’t let me read the letter from his girlfriend,” Charlie pouted, sitting cross-legged on the floor. 

Bill hoisted himself to his feet, quickly folded Aysa’s letter, and stuffed it into his pockets. “I don’t have a girlfriend, and you couldn’t read it if you wanted to. It’s in  _ Russian _ .”

Jarka raised a dark eyebrow. “You know Russian?”

“I have a deep appreciation for the culture,” Bill scrambled to cover. 

“Since when?” asked Jarka. They were smiling, not the full-out-shit-eating grin that Charlie liked to sport, but one that was much more subtle. Some would even call it polite. Bill called it irritating. 

Jarka had been best friends with Charlie since their first year of school. They were both way too obsessed with dragons for either of their own goods and had spent hours discussing it. Bill had heard them debate if a Hungarian horntail could beat a Chinese fireball over breakfast as many times as he’d heard his own friends discuss quidditch stats. Charlie and Jarka were two peas in a pod, but Molly would never approve of Charlie’s friendship with a wix from a notoriously dark family.

Both of Jarka’s parents were curse breakers. Their mother was a Japanese curse breaker who spent most of her time dismantling ancient asian curses with a skill level that rivaled the most talented wizard that Gringotts had to offer. Their father was the most talented wizard Gringotts had to offer: Antonin Dolohov, a man well-known for his belief that in order to break a curse you first needed to know how to craft one. Jarka was a Dark wix, and Molly Weasley couldn’t help but disapprove. In Bill’s opinion, Jarka was completely harmless––his younger brother’s annoying best friend. It was their older brother, Niko, you had to watch out for. 

“I’ve always been interested in other cultures,” Bill stated. “Learning Russian seemed like a good place to start.”

“If you’re so interested in learning about Russia, I can teach you,” Jarka offered. 

Bill almost refused but stopped himself at the last moment. Despite his lies, he was interested in learning more about the world that Aysa had inhabited before she’d moved here. He was interested in learning more about Russia in general. “Sure. Why not?”

“Sounds good.” Jarka smiled. “I’ll meet you at the Three Broomsticks during the next Hogsmeade weekend. We can talk about it then.” Without waiting for a response, Jarka sauntered away. 

Charlie jumped up beside Bill. “Did you just agree to a date with Jarka?”

“What?” Bill sputtered. “No. Of course not.”

“Really? ‘Cause it seemed like that from where I’m sitting. And from where Niko Dolohov’s sitting.” 

Bill’s gaze flitted towards the Slytherin table. Unusually slim with extremely pointed features, Niko Dolohov was always easy to spot. It helped that the hulking giant Isak Rowle was always sitting beside him. Niko looked so different from the softer-featured Jarka, who obviously took after their mum, that it was hard to believe that they were related. True to Charlie’s words, He was glaring at Bill. The ginger sighed. 

Charlie patted his brother on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’m sure it’s nothing.”

If only Bill believed Charlie’s words.

.

.

Without fail, Sunday night found Aysa sitting beside her father at his dining room table. It was a long table, filled with seven seats on each side and one at each end. Aysa wondered how often her father hosted dinner parties, for a table this size couldn’t be useful for much else. It especially wasn’t useful for a single person. It was even awkward for just the two of them. 

“How is your schooling?” her father asked towards the end of the first course. That was another new thing about her life in England. Her mother had only eaten meals. Her father ate courses. A part of her wondered what could have possibly drawn them together. They seemed too different.

“It’s going well,” Aysa answered. “I like maths.”

Riddle nodded. “I liked maths as well.”

“You did?” Aysa wasn’t sure why this came as a surprise to her. Maybe it was because her father rarely ever talked about his personal life. He talked about other things––history, politics, or magic, for example––but never himself.

“Yes. I was rather good at it. It’s a shame that the Hogwarts curriculum doesn’t require it past the first year.” Riddle set his spoon down on the plate. It vanished alongside Aysa’s. The second and main course began. “It’s one of the best schools in the world, but there are many things they don’t teach that would help the average student.” He paused for a second before continuing, “And your magic?”

“It’s getting stronger,” Aysa admitted. “I’ve been practicing streamlining it.”

“Really? How?” Riddle was always curious about her magic. It fascinated him, and whenever Aysa couldn’t find the words to describe how an element of it worked, he grew irritated. He never lashed out at her because of it. Usually, he simply encouraged her to learn more English words. He’d given her a thesaurus the last time it had happened.

“I am…” Aysa hesitated, unsure if she should tell him.  _ He’ll discover it anyway,  _ she reasoned. Her father seemed to have ways of knowing things, even things that happened in the Lower Alleys––but only if they happened to her. He didn’t know about the deaths. Or, if he did, he didn’t care. “I am sewing.”

“Sewing?”

“Yes.” Aysa nodded firmly.

Riddle seemed surprised. “Why? Do you not have proper clothes?”

“No. I do. I… I like it,” Aysa answered. “I like to make things.”

“You can raise beings from beyond the grave.” Riddle’s words implied that no one would want to sew if they were able to do such a thing. Aysa didn’t mention that she’d only raised a being from the dead once: a rabbit. Her mother had scolded her immensely for it. She hadn’t tried since, despite reading the chapter in the book twice. Instead, she’d learned how to streamline her magic, adapting wizard spells so that she could sew without touching a needle. It was harder than it seemed.

“I can,” Aysa agreed, “but I like to sew. I made skirt that I’m wearing.” Aysa gestured to the skirt in question. It was made out of leftover grey wool that Sally had found in the back of the shop. Six velvet buttons ran down the side. The skirt ended right at her knees, flaring out around her. It was a beautiful skirt to twirl in. 

Riddle’s eyes were scrutinizing as he inspected her skirt. Finally, he nodded. “I think I should expand your allowance to include clothing, or, in this case, a fabric allowance. Being a seamstress would not be unattainable for a witch of your blood status.”

“Thank you.” Aysa’s jaw dropped. She couldn’t believe it. Her heart swelled with joy. Before she knew what she was doing, she jumped out of her chair, pulling her father into a hug. Riddle stiffened beneath her. He did not relax as Aysa realized her mistake and pulled away. “Oh, I… I didn’t…”

Riddle waved his hand in dismissal. “Let’s not.” With that, he moved the conversation towards the history of Celtic runes and how they’re used in modern-day warding. Aysa listened to his every word.

Soon, the meal ended and Riddle escorted her to the fireplace. He passed her a box of floo powder. Aysa nodded to her father before stepping through the fireplace. It was dark outside when Aysa emerged into her flat, but that didn’t stop her from throwing open the doors and racing onto the balcony. The cool air was welcoming against her skin. 

Despite her best efforts, Aysa didn’t enjoy the Sunday night dinners. Things were always tense as she sat beside her father, trying her best to get to know him. He didn’t tell her much about himself. Aysa found herself closing off to him in return. She didn’t know how to feel towards her father. It wasn’t that Tom Riddle was a bad man—at least, Aysa didn’t think he was. She wasn’t entirely sure. He was not kind towards her, but he was not mean either. He was Dark like Aysa, she could feel it, and she found that fact comforting. She would have liked to know him better though. Maybe it was because he was a grown-up while she was barely a teenager. He was obviously having trouble connecting with her. Perhaps things would have been different if she had been raised by him. Aysa didn’t know. 

A cold breeze danced across her skin as Aysa stared at the street below. She pushed Tom Riddle from her thoughts, watching the snow fall to the alleys. It would turn into ugly brown sludge in the morning when the shops opened, but now it was pristine and white. The entire alley seemed wrapped in a white blanket of snow. 

It was against that stark color, that Aysa noticed a still, unmoving shadow on the ground. Her eyes narrowed, trying to get a better look. She couldn’t tell what it was. Normally, Aysa would have left the shadow alone, but there was a nagging feeling at the back of her mind telling her to investigate. Aysa followed that feeling. 

Without bothering to grab a cloak, Aysa raced down the stairs and out into the alley. The shadow hadn’t moved, so it was easy to find. Kneeling down, Aysa noticed that it was a cat—a freshly dead cat. The corpse was still warm. A feeling of sadness washed over Aysa. If she’d only arrived a few hours earlier, she could’ve saved it. The first spells she’d started mastering were the healing spells. 

A thought flickered through the back of Aysa’s mind. She could still save the cat. It was only a cat, after all. It’s soul was different from a human’s. They were not impossible to pull from the beyond. She could…

Aysa reached out her hand, laying it on the cat’s chest. “ _ Vstavio,”  _ she whispered. Purple light seeped from her fingers to the cat. It’s chest started to rise and fall beneath her hand. Aysa let out a surprised laugh. The sound must’ve startled the cat because it jumped up, eying Aysa for a moment. Aysa offered the cat a smile. “Hello.”

The cat meowed in response. A loud clanging came from further down the alley. The cat jumped again, hissing in the direction of the noise. Before the beast got the opportunity to race towards the noise, Aysa had scooped him up and fled once more into the safety of her flat. 

.

.

“What do you think you are doing?”

Bill sighed and turned his attention from the book on the table to the boy before him. He had been expecting this, but it didn’t mean that he wanted to confront Niko Dolohov, who scowled angrily at him. Isak Rowle leaned against the bookcase, his arms crossed. Both were a year older than Bill, but only Isak was taller. Weasley genes all but guaranteed height. 

“I’m studying,” Bill said, keeping his voice low so as to not pull Pince’s attention their way. Honestly, Dolohov should know better than to cause a scene in the library of all places. 

“Let me make myself more clear,” Niko spat, “What are your intentions with Jarka?” 

“I don’t have any intentions with Jarka,” Bill said, “and I don’t think they have any with me. Not that it would be any of your business if we decided to become anything other than friends.”

“As the head of the family, it’s my job to look after my sibling’s best interests.” Isak Rowle snorted at Niko’s words. The shorter boy whirled on him. “What’s so funny?” 

“Nothing.” Isak held his hands up in a surrendering gesture. “Nothing.” Niko’s eyes narrowed, clearly not believing the other boy. 

Rowle arched an eyebrow, meeting Bill’s gaze. They were clearly thinking the same thing: Jarka Dolohov would kill their brother if they discovered he was trying to ‘protect’ them from making friends. That was a fight Bill would like to see. Jarka versus Niko. He was almost certain the former would win. 

Niko whirled on Bill. “You’re going to Hogsmead with Jarka, yet you have no intentions? I find that hard to believe.”

“Believe it.” Bill snapped his book shut, sending it to the reshelving cart with a flick of his wand. Jarka may as well have been another one of Bill’s siblings. He’d watch out for them, but he’d never think about them romantically. Bill didn’t offen think about people romantically. Sure, he’d dated here and there, but no one had ever captured his interests. Besides, he was young. He had plenty of time to settle down later in life. He wanted to explore the world—and the alleys—now. He’d rather hang out with Aysa, Leo, or the number of friends he’d made in the lower alleys than go on a date. 

Niko scoffed. “A blood traitor like you would never be worthy of someone in my family.” Not a new insult to Bill and hardly a creative one. He didn’t want to date a Dolohov, regardless of how nice Jarka could be. “They should’ve included Weasley’s on the latest creature-cooperation bill. At least then you’re kind wouldn’t be allowed into Hogwarts.” 

Now that one annoyed Bill. He’d read all about the new piece of S.O.W. legislature as soon as it was introduced. It knocked down a number of wizards who had previously been considered pureblood to halfblood status if they had a certain percentage of creature blood in them while raising up a number of previously considered creatures to halfblood status to ‘placate’ Dumbledore’s opposition. All of those creatures were Dark—those with banshee blood, mermaid blood, and necromancers. It was a slap in the face and didn’t fool anyone. 

“What did you just say?” 

Niko’s face turned pale. Bill couldn’t help the smile that crossed his face. Jarka stepped out of the nearby stacks, rage clearly on their face. 

“You’re in trouble now,” Isak muttered. 

“Not helping,” snapped Niko. 

Jarka glared at their brother. “I hope I mistook the words that came out of your mouth, darling brother. I didn’t hear you insulting an incredibly powerful pureblood family, did I?”

“They’re not powerful.”

“Not politically, maybe, but magically, definitely. Or have you forgotten that they have seven children?” 

Niko frowned. “I can’t believe you—groveling with scum-”

Jarka’s wand appeared in their hand, pointed straight at their brother’s nose. Bill shifted uncomfortably. His gaze flicked to Rowle, questioning. The taller boy shrugged. He didn’t seem worried. Apparently, this was normal behavior for the Dolohov siblings. 

“Talk about my best friend that way again, and you won’t be able to see for a week.” 

“I can’t believe you’re choosing them over us—your own family.” Niko gestured between him and Isak. 

“Have you and Isak finally decided to tie the knot?”

Isak chuckled. “No offense, Nik, but the last thing I want is to be saddled with you for the rest of my life.” 

Niko scoffed. “How could you choose Weasley over your own brother? You’re not going Light are you?”

“Why would you think that?” Jarka asked. 

“It’s not as if you’ve declared your position.”

“I didn’t think I needed to!” Jarka shouted, drawing a scathing  _ shhhh  _ from Pince. 

“Then why’re you going on a date with Weasley?” 

Jarka paused. They glanced between Bill and their brother. Suddenly, they doubled over with laughter. It filled the library, earning them glares from the librarian. “Niko, you absolute dumbass. Bill’s like an older brother to me. He might as well be Isak. I have no romantic intentions with either of them.”

“Then why’re you going to Hogsmead?” 

“So that you don’t bother us.” 

Niko blinked. “What?”

“I asked Bill to Hogsmead because I knew that you wouldn’t be able to interrupt us since you managed to get yourself banned from all weekends following the Hufflepuff incident. I am sick and tired of you assuming that every single person I hang out with who isn’t Charlie is interested in me.”

“I never said that Dragon Weasley-”

“Some of us actually know how to make friends without instantly skipping to sex.” Jarka glared at Niko, who had the good sense to look bashful. “Now, leave Bill alone, or I’m going to tell Dad.” 

“Like he’d care-”

“That you scared off the only promising curse breaker in Hogwarts and got him saddled with Jamie Mcmillian instead. Oh, yeah, I’m sure he’d be ecstatic.” 

Niko flushed. He glared at Bill. “I don’t like you, Weasley.”

“The feeling’s mutual.”

With a huff, Niko stormed out of the library. Isak trailed after him. Bill turned to Jarka. “I didn’t need you to do that, y’know?”

“I know,” Jarka said. “But I’ve been waiting for the opportunity to tell him off for weeks. He scared off Gemma Yaxley, and I was actually interested in her.” 

“But you’re not interested in me?”

“Merlin, no.” A smile broke across Bill’s face as the severity of Jarka’s tone. 

.

.

Leo turned fourteen in the beginning of March. He dragged Aysa along to his surprise birthday party, which wasn’t really a surprise because Leo knew all about it. Leo knew everything, or, nearly everything. He didn’t know what had killed Brian and Dru, but he was doing his best to find out, much to his cousin’s chagrin. 

He didn’t know about Aysa either. She was thankful for that.

Leo’s friends were nice. They were a handful of lower alley kids: Hattie, Felix, Ward, and Winter. They had varying degrees of magic amongst them, but that didn’t seem to affect their friendships. Hattie was a short, dark girl with a mischievous smile. Felix carried a dead rabbit foot with him everywhere he went for good luck. Ward and Winter were siblings, though not related by blood but by choice. They accepted Aysa, allowing her to fade quietly into the background. 

She gave Leo a vest that she’d made with pockets to hide knives. It wasn’t the best thing she’d created, but Leo liked it nonetheless. Before Aysa knew it, the party was over and the teens were parting ways. Aysa refused Leo’s offer to walk her home. She knew the alleys well enough now. In hindsight, she should’ve taken him up on the offer.

The alleys were dark and cold. Aysa was used to it. Her cat, which still didn’t have a name (much to Sally’s chagrin), joined her for the walk. He’d been following her everywhere for the past two weeks, ever since she saved his life. Aysa couldn’t find a reason for him doing so in her book. It said nothing of what happened to animals once they were raised. If all of them followed like her cat, Aysa would have to be more careful in the future. 

Lost in thought, Aysa wandered down the alley, heading towards her small apartment when a pair of hands reached out, pulling her into the darkness. A man leered down at her, a wicked smile on his face. He slammed Aysa against the hard, brick wall. “What’s a pretty girl like you doing in these parts?”

He was much taller than her––strong and fit. His clothes were worn with holes. His blue eyes gleamed in the moonlight.

“ _Please let me go,_ ” Aysa begged, slipping into Russian as panic consumed her. 

“You can't talk. Good."

Aysa gagged. His breath reeked of alcohol. 

There was no magic surrounding him, but Aysa could still read his malicious intent. He leaned towards her. Aysa reacted without thinking. Her hand shot out, slamming into his face. Purple sprung from her fingertips, shooting straight into his face. He dropped to the ground, screaming. Aysa ran, not looking back to see what happened to the man. She didn’t stop until she was safely inside her flat with the door locked. 

Aysa sunk to the floor, her breath coming in short gasps.  _ What did she just do?  _ Outside the snow started to fall.

.

.

A blizzard raged through the alleys for the next week. Unusual, everyone said, to have a blizzard in early March. Wizards and witches turned their eyes to the windows and the snowstorm outside. It could only be magic, but, who would do such a thing, no one knew. 

Aysa stayed locked in her flat the entire week. She couldn’t focus on anything. She tried reading books, and playing chess, and talking to the cat. None of it worked. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the man in the alley. 

The third body was found the day after the snowstorm when the snow began to melt. An unnamed man who no one was able to identify––not even Leo. He was worried. This body was much too close for Aysa’s flat for his liking. 

The man had doubled over, face planting in the snow as he died. His face was covered with a burn-mark in the shape of a handprint, scorched and half-melted. His eyes were made of silver. 

A curfew was implemented throughout the lower alleys. 


End file.
